We hear the blind and aimless gallopingOf an errant Rider from the days gome by:The shackled souls of sunken forests moanAs ancient marshes waken with a sigh.Where here and there the thickets, coppicesAre choked in patches, densely in a strife,The spectres of the ancient wintry talesAre now awakened to a sudden life.Here are the thickets, here the coppices.Here are the dismal tunes of bygone